Page 22 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Gravely, Stokes nodded. “What we’ve established is that there is no suggestion of any other motive—no personal animosity, nothing about her will. It’s those payments, whatever they are. Keeping them hidden is the motive behind Lady Halstead’s murder, that and nothing else.” He glanced at Montague, then Violet, then Barnaby. “Until and unless we get information to the contrary, I suggest we should proceed on that understanding.”

Their small meeting broke up shortly afterward, with the three men making arrangements to meet the following morning at Montague’s office to examine the evidence he’d already assembled regarding the odd payments they all believed were behind Lady Halstead’s murder.

Violet accompanied the men into the front hall. She had felt not just accepted and appreciated but also reassured to have been included in the discussions thus far. Everything had happened so rapidly—the discovery of Lady Halstead’s body, the summoning of help, calming Tilly and Cook, coping with the doctor, and then the police, much less all the rest—that she hadn’t yet had time to grieve, to come to grips with her own roiling emotions. But of one thing she was instinctively sure: She wanted to help. She needed to do whatever she could to help catch the murderer and win justice for Lady Halstead. The violence of her feelings was unexpected and unsettling; she was relieved the three men seemed to understand without her having to explain.

On his way out of the front door, Stokes paused to tell her, “I’ve left a constable on guard inside the house, and there’s another outside—he’s out of sight, but he’s keeping an eye on the place.” Stokes hesitated, then added, “I meant to go into the kitchen and assure the maid and the cook that neither of them are suspects, not in our eyes. Perhaps you could tell them?”

Violet nodded. “Of course.”

Stokes left; with an encouraging look and a salute, Adair followed him down the steps. Realizing Montague had hung back in the hall, Violet closed the door and turned. Gently smiled.

With a brief, answering smile, Montague went forward. Greatly daring, he reached for one of Violet’s hands, lightly held it. “This has all happened very quickly.”

He wasn’t simply speaking of Lady Halstead’s death and the consequent happenings of the tumultuous day; he was still coming to grips with his feelings for Violet, with the intensity of his reaction to her being within the orbit of a murderer, and to the implicit, if nebulous, threat hovering over her. He looked into her eyes, studied her expression. “This was the first time you’ve met Stokes and Adair—I wanted to reassure you that you may have every confidence in them. The investigation couldn’t be in better hands. They will work tirelessly to bring Lady Halstead’s murderer to justice.” He held her soft blue gaze. “I know that’s important to you. I understand why. It’s much the same compulsion I experience when one of my clients is harmed, but, I imagine, you feel the need even more keenly, as clearly you were close to Lady Halstead.”

Violet felt her smile go awry. “She was a dear and didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

“No. But”—Montague inclined his head in a gesture that was a vow—“I, too, have an interest in this now, and with the four of us devoted to the cause, her ladyship will not go unavenged.” He held her gaze for a moment more, then bowed briefly and released her hand.

Violet turned to open the door. “Thank you for all your help today. I’m more grateful than I can say.”

Pausing in the doorway, he met her gaze again, then dipped his head. “I’ll call when we have further news.”

She inclined her head and watched him go down the steps and out of the gate. Lingering in the doorway, she let her gaze follow him as he strode down the pavement, broad shoulders square, head held high, solid, masculine confidence in every powerful line.

When he rounded the corner and disappeared from her sight, Violet sighed, then, feeling the tug of the sadness waiting within, she closed the door and turned away, sternly telling herself that this was neither an appropriate nor useful time to discover she still possessed the ability to dream.

After quitting the Lowndes Street house, Barnaby and Stokes hailed a hackney, and after a brief discussion elected to journey to Stokes’s house in Greenbury Street, in St. John’s Wood, there to mull over their impressions and observations in peace and comfort.

Through the rocking, rattling trip they kept their private counsels, allowing their minds to freely pick over the accumulated observations, searching for fresh insights to share once they’d gained the quiet of Stokes’s sitting room. But on arriving in Greenbury Street and entering Stokes’s neat abode, they discovered their wives already in possession.

Both ladies were sitting on the floor, their skirts puffed about them, playing with young Oliver and the slightly younger Megan. Both babies were rolling on their backs, alert and chortling as they batted at toys their mothers dangled over them.

The sight brought Stokes and Barnaby to a halt in the doorway.

Barnaby felt as if something—some power—had punched him in the chest. He knew from the sudden stillness, the complete and utter absorption of the man beside him, that Stokes felt the same.

Penelope and Griselda had heard their footsteps—had seen them enter and had taken the moment of their stillness to study their faces and appreciate their reaction.

Then Penelope smiled and, with a flick of her wrist, sent the toy with which she’d been distracting Oliver flying at Barnaby’s chest.

Reflexively, he caught it. Spell broken, he glanced at her, met her dark, too-observant eyes.

Her smile deepened, edged with intent. “The investigators return—and clearly with some case afoot.” She waved to include the children. “So come and join us—and tell us all.”

Griselda, also smiling, nodded. “Indeed.” She threw the toy she’d been jiggling to Stokes. “Come and take over.” She started to get up. “I’ll have Mindy bring in the tea tray, and meanwhile you can sit, stretch your legs, and share the news about your latest case.”

They know us far too well. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Stokes helped his wife to her feet, lightly kissed her cheek, then let her go to the kitchen to arrange for the tea tray. Crouching, he looked into the smiling, laughing blue eyes of his tiny daughter—and promptly fell under her spell again.

Grinning and dutifully jiggling the toy over her, he didn’t feel so bad—quite so silly—when at the edge of his vision he saw Barnaby sprawling on the floor next to his rolling bundle of a son.

Penelope rose, looked down at them for a moment, then, apparently satisfied that they knew what they were doing, went to the sofa and sat. She said nothing, merely watched over them; Stokes got the impression she was overseeing to make sure he and Barnaby did nothing wrong.

Twenty minutes later, with the now drowsy children handed over to Gloria, Megan’s nursemaid, and carted off to the nursery, with the tea poured and slices of pound cake passed around, the four of them settled into the comfort of the well-padded chairs and, finally, with the air of one who had waited patiently and was now due all she wished, Penelope said, “So, gentlemen, what’s your new case?”

Stokes glanced at Barnaby; they’d been colleagues and friends for long enough now that he had little doubt about the thoughts, the considerations, rolling through Barnaby’s mind. It still surprised him, the easy rapport they shared—the son of an earl and the son of a merchant, albeit a merchant’s son with a better-than-average education. As for the friendship, real and true, that had formed between their wives, that was an even greater wonder—an ex-East-Ender-milliner-shopkeeper-cum-police inspector’s wife rubbing shoulders with the wife of the son of an earl, herself the daughter of a viscount and connected by marriage to several of the most powerful noble families in the land.

Yet there they all were, sipping tea and munching pound cake in his small but comfortable sitting room. And in the past, before their foray into motherhood, their wives had, indeed, been of significant help in several of their cases. He and Barnaby had both hoped that the advent of Oliver and Megan would permanently distract Penelope and Griselda from their earlier interest, but as that patently wasn’t to be, then the Halstead case was, perhaps, a gift horse he and Barnaby shouldn’t try to turn away.